


Hang Up Your Coat

by BuddysImpala, melloneddy



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Again, Drinking, Heavy Angst, It Happened in a Dream, Multi, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, b u t n o t r e a l l y, barlyle - Freeform, but also sad, forgive me Father for I have sinned, it's wonderful please read it, just. sorry, one-sided, phillip is Sad, sorry anne, sorry phillip, sorry pt, there's a l o t of foreshadowing, this. this is Beauty, two angst masters coming together to make an Absolute Atrocity, ummmm what else do i tag, we Apologize, we rewrote songs for this guys, we torture phillip, what have we done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-04-17 22:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14198847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddysImpala/pseuds/BuddysImpala, https://archiveofourown.org/users/melloneddy/pseuds/melloneddy
Summary: Humans are like water glasses. The water, that most elusive of things, is made of memories--people, events, words--all of them negative. Most glasses are only filled halfway. Some lucky ones only sustain a drop or two. And the most unlucky of us--the Edgar Allen Poes and Vincent Van Goghs--are filled all the way to the top.But what happens, we wonder, when a glass overflows?...And the circus came crumbling down.





	1. Chapter 1

When Phillip stumbled into the tent, bleary-eyed and with a pulsating headache, almost twenty minutes late for setup, Anne was there to tut at him. She cocked her head to the side, hand on her hip as she stared at the man.

  
"Out drinking? Honestly, Phillip, you knew we had a show today." She wiped a strand of loose hair from his face and cupped his cheek. He leaned into the touch, closed his eyes.

  
"'m sorry," he mumbled. Anne took a step back, shook her head, and offered him a small smile. An indecipherable emotion flickered across her face, and she opened her mouth as if to tell him something. Philip blinked slowly, and she shut her mouth before sighing and speaking to the space behind his head.

 

"C'mon, Barnum's just now helping W.D. and me with the set." She grabbed his hand and tugged him over, hardly noticing that he stumbled like a rag doll. Letting go of his hand, she said something to her brother.

  
Phillip didn't hear.

  
He stood back as he watched P.T. help Anne and W.D. set up their rigging. Anne smiled, laughed, but Phillip wasn't looking at her. Instead, his eyes sought out the ringmaster. His gaze trailed down the older man's strong arms and landed on the rope held tight in his fists. A hangman’s noose.

  
P.T. looked up, saw him eyeing the rope, and laughed. He yanked at the knotted noose, snapping it as he would a belt.

 

Phillip flinched. It was tiny; he hardly moved, but it was there.

 

"Don't hang yourself now, Phillip. We need’ya for the show." Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of P.T.'s eyes as he grinned.

  
Phillip chuckled, but his throat tightened up and he swallowed, hard. Anne came over and squeezed his shoulder. She kissed his cheek, and his eye twitched, just a little. "Mind helping me hook up?"

  
She led him by the hand over to the ropes she and W.D. used as practice, but her words faded out of focus as she spoke. Phillip glanced over his shoulder. P.T.'s smile blurred in front of him as he set down the hangman's knot and ambled over to help Charles onto a horse.

  
Phillip felt on the verge of passing out. He turned back to Anne, blurriness fading, the girl coming back into focus. She spoke to him as if nothing had happened.

  
Behind them, P.T.'s noose laid forgotten on the floor.

  



	2. Chapter 2

Phillip met Anne at the trapeze after the show, once the audience started clearing out. As she helped herself down, he took her hand in his and brought it up to his lips. She smiled at him.

"I'm sorry about this morning. Would you like to accompany me tonight?"

Anne's lips curled into a smile. "Where to, Romeo?"

Phillip gazed at her as he chuckled. "Romeo and Juliet are hardly ideal for how one handles a relationship. I'd like to think we could refrain from killing everyone we loved, including ourselves."

Anne's laughter followed his as she leaned in close, softly brushing their lips in a kiss. "I'd go anywhere with you, Phillip, you know that."

Phillip took a deep breath. "Good. I think you'll really like what I want to show you. A friend showed it to me once."

"A friend, huh?" Anne teased as she backed away.

"A very—" Phillip caught sight of P.T. out of the corner of his eye and his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed, hard. "—very good friend."

...

"Oh, Phillip. It's beautiful."

They stood at the center of a rooftop, Anne leaning against Phillip's chest. He wrapped his arms around her as she tilted her head back, a million twinkling stars shining overhead.

"Maybe the world could be ours tonight..." she murmured to herself, smiling.

_"Charity and I used to come up here and dance every night, just the two of us, underneath the night sky," P.T. whispered. "We may not live here anymore, but this rooftop will always hold a special place in my heart."_

_"Why did you bring me here?" Phillip asked, soft hair blowing in the wind._

_"I want you to have this escape too, Phillip. You can't be around the circus all the time, but this place...is just as magical. Bring the love of your life here, Phil, and dance. Dance like you're the only two people left in the world."_

Phillip closed his eyes, took another deep breath. The air was still, the stars twinkling overhead, just like the picture that P.T. had painted in his head.

But he was alone.

Opening his eyes, he stared straight ahead. There was nothing in front of him, but a ledge. A ledge that dropped several stories, no barricade to be seen. If one desired, one could easily topple off; it would look accidental—

"Phillip?"

A soft hand on his face brought him back to reality, and he found himself staring into Anne's dark, sparkling eyes.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Dance," he murmured.

"Hmm?"

"Dance with me, Anne." His lips curled up into a tight little smile as he stiffly offered his hand. "Dance with me."

And they danced. Twirled around that rooftop for hours, Phillip lifting and dipping Anne with deadweight arms. The girl laughed, clung to him close. For the second time that night, the world faded away from Phillip Carlyle.

...

His arms were wrapped around her waist. She slept soundly beside him, bare skin hot against his fingertips. He gasped, jerked his hands away. Bolted upright.

Anne slept undisturbed, the swell of her naked breast rising and falling with every breath she took. Phillip stared at her, then shuddered, feeling the cold air against his own hot skin.

_(you laid with her, didn't you? Mommy and Daddy won't be very pleased about that)_

He cringed, a whip ghosting against his skin.

_(Whores, all of them! Selfish, intolerable whores, no respect for their own bodies.)_

He glanced at Anne again.

_(No son of mine will involve himself with that scum!)_

Anne wasn't a whore.

_(yes she was)_

He loved Anne. He—

_(Do you know what I would do to you if I found you involving yourself with those whores, Phillip?)_

—loved Anne no matter what; a marriage ceremony wouldn't change that.

_(Why don't I give you a sneak peek?)_

Phillip squeezed his eyes shut. Beside him, Anne sighed.

_(So you won't be...tempted.)_

...

Everything felt wrong. Phillip dismissed it at first, making Anne breakfast, taking her with him to the circus. She acted no differently, hanging on to his arm as if it were the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground during the entire carriage ride. As always, she said little, but the bright smile on her face let Phillip know all he needed.

She was happy.

Should that not be all he desired?

Pushing his strange thoughts to the back of his mind, he turned to help Anne out of the carriage, starting when she dropped an abrupt kiss to his cheek. It burned, in a good way. A good way, he told himself, forcing a smile onto his face. Watching Anne run off to get dressed for practice, he hardly noticed P.T.'s hand descending onto his shoulder. When his deep voice began to rumble _right next to Phillip's ear_ , however, he jumped about three feet in the air and gave a startled yelp. "P.T.! I told you not to sneak up on me--"

"I hear you and Miss Wheeler did not bother to take separate carriages, today." P.T. lowered his voice, giving Phillip chills as he bent down further to reach his height.

"Wha--P.T., that is besides the point--"

"It seems exactly the point, Mr. Carlyle." Noticing that Phillip had begun to huff away towards the practice ring, he rushed after him, coat flapping. "Well? Did you take her? To the rooftop, I mean! Phillip! _Phillip_ \--"

Phillip had disappeared in plain sight. P.T. stopped in his tracks, sighing as his trademark grin worked its way across his face.

"He'll come around eventually," he murmured to the empty space next to him. "Still young."

...

" _Two_ shows?! P.T., that's impossible--"

"No, Phil, you're thinking _improbable_." P.T.'s smile burned and shined, and Phillip stared at it, wondering exactly how P.T. had gotten his teeth so white. "The people want more, and what the people want, we must deliver!" Hearing no protestation from Phillip, he chuckled and clapped him on the back. "Perfect! We'll start tomorrow--one show at twelve-thirty, and another at four. I'll go call a meeting with the rest of the troop."

He tipped his hat and buzzed off. Phillip stared after him, mouth open in confusion and surprise.

Two shows.

His head was beginning to hurt. Groaning silently under his breath, he turned towards his office. Twice the number of shows meant twice the amount of advertising; if they wanted any kind of turnout, he'd have to work four times as hard.

Resigning himself to his fate, he waved to Anne in the practice ring and closed his office door.

 


	3. Chapter 3

"Phillip? Are you coming?"

Anne stood in the doorway, still in costume, wig in her hands, and leaned her head against the doorframe. Phillip snapped his head up and glared at her. His hair was ruffled, his eyes dark.

"Do you not see all this?" he spat, motioning toward all of the finance and advertising paperwork littered across his desk. " _Barnum_ ," (he only referred to the man by his last name when he was truly annoyed), "will have me working here 'til the year 1900 with these damn double shows he's insisted on performing."

Anne's face fell.

Phillip sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, all right?" He ran his hands over his face. "Just...go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

Anne left without another word.

Phillip sighed again and melted back into his work, but it was harder to concentrate. He felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache coming on.

Time melted away from him as he worked in utter silence for a little while, half-focused, eyes almost crossing as he scanned over the words, the numbers, the percents. He jumped when he heard someone knock at the door.

"Damnit Anne, I thought I told you—"

His breath caught in his throat when he looked up and saw P.T. standing in the doorway. The older man smiled.

"Phin? I thought you'd gone home already."

"Could say the same about you," P.T. responded casually, dropping himself into a spare chair.

"Not with all this paperwork," Phillip muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Um..." He fiddled with the pen in his hand. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be home with Charity and the girls?"

P.T. sighed. "Charity and I had a fight."

"Oh?" Phillip looked up, perhaps a little too quickly. A quick burst of...something twisted in his stomach. "What about?"

"She thinks I'm overworking the troupe with these double shows—"

"That makes two of us."

"—and won't listen despite my repeated explanations as to why these shows are a good thing," P.T. finished, oblivious to Phillip's mumbling.

"I - uh." What was he supposed to say? That he hoped P.T. and Charity would work it out? Kiss and make up? "I'm sorry, Phin. Is there anything I can do?"

"Don't worry about me." P.T. brushed away Phillip's concern with a flick of his wrist. "What about you?" He smirked.

"Wh-What about me?" Surprised by the sudden change in conversation, Phillip fumbled for words.

"You and Anne are spending a lot of time together, aren't you?" That coy little smile returned to P.T.'s lips.

The tips of Phillip's ears flamed red with embarrassment. "I don't believe that's any of your concern, Mr. Barnum."

"What's with the formalities? You can tell me, can't you, Phillip? No secrets between men, huh?"

Phillip almost choked on his own spit. What did _that_ mean?

_(why are you so worried? It's not like—)_

"Have you taken her to the rooftop yet?"

_(—you've got anything to hide. Right?)_

Phillip began to gather up his things, blindly stuffing paperwork into his drawers and folders. "I really should get going, Mr. Barnum. It's getting late and—"

"You weren't rejected, were you, Phillip? You shouldn't have been, the rooftop always works—"

Phillip stared at the man, mouth agape, sweat starting to form on his brow.

_(tell him. tell him how you coupled with a whore, a whore, a—)_

_(you're staring! what would Daddy say if he caught you staring at a man too long? whores are bad, but men, men are—)_

_("Father, Father, stop! Please stop! It won't happen aga—!")_

Phillip Carlyle almost felt sick with revulsion as he hurried out of that office, forgetting his things. Bolting out of that room faster than a lightning strike, he left P.T. alone and gaping after him.

He left so fast he was almost running. Running, running, running away from—

_(you fool! have you no composure? now he'll know something is wrong, he'll know and—)_

"SHUT UP!" Phillip screamed, falling to his knees in the street.

Around him, people stared. Carriages stopped. Children quieted.

"Wanna go home," Phillip moaned. He trembled on his hands and knees, pebbles digging into his palms. "Wanna go home, wanna go home, want Anne, wanna go ho—"

 _Lies_ , a secret voice, a very deep, secret voice whispered inside of Phillip Carlyle. _You don't want Anne, you want—_

Phillip fainted in the middle of the street.

…

Anne almost threw her wig on her dressing table, fuming. W.D., who was packing up next to her, looked over and frowned.

“That’s some attitude, Annie. Did something happen?” His eyes darkened, and he left the end of the sentence--

_(did he hurt you, annie?)_

hanging in the air, unfinished. Anne scoffed and stormed into the small cubicle reserved for the ladies’ costuming.

She was in there for almost twenty minutes before W.D. went after her. Knocking on the wall beside it before pulling the curtain to the side, he knelt down next to her and moved her hands from where they had been plastered onto her face. She had been crying quietly, and he wiped a tear away with his thumb, speaking softly to her like he had when she was little and had been afraid of the dark.

“Anne? Annie, what’s happ--”

“W.D., am I annoying?”

W.D. started, brows furrowing. “Annie, why would you ever think that? You’re sweet, caring--”

“That’s not what I _asked_ , W.D., I need to know.” Her voice broke, and he could see her face beginning to contort again. In a frantic effort to keep her from bursting into tears, he drew her into his arms, shushing her gently when she began to whimper.

“You’re perfect, Annie. Let nobody tell you otherwise.” Knowing she’d tell him what was wrong when she was ready, he let her go, smiling gently and tipping her head up to face him with his thumb. “Now, Annie, go get dressed. You can hardly go out in a corset and tights, can you?”

…

P.T. sat in the office chair, bewildered. He hadn’t crossed a line, had he? All the same, Phillip had sprinted out so fast he could have had a hot poker attached to his behind. Probably nothing, but he worried anyway.

He sat there for a few more minutes, staring pensively at Phillip’s empty chair, still swiveling slowly from the momentum of Phillip’s swift departure. Sitting here was doing him no favors, he recognized, and he abruptly got up, casting a quick glance over the papers on Phil’s desk before grabbing his hat from the hook near the office door and marching out.

…

There was commotion outside the circus. Women and children stood huddled around a sort of accident, giving the ambulance on the spot a wide berth. P.T. frowned. Upon closer inspection, he realized it wasn’t an accident at all. Just the ambulance, and a crowd of people.

Something told him he needed to get closer, and so he did, squinting at the face of the man being loaded into the carriage. He’d seen that face before; it was strangely familiar--

His eyes widened, and he pushed past the crowd, yelling for them to let him through. They did, muttering under their breath, and he ran up to the carriage, turning to one of the men loading Phillip into the back.

“Excuse me; my name is Phineas Taylor Barnum; I’m this man’s business partner--”

The man looked at him with a slight expression of annoyance. “Yeah? Whaddya want?”

“I’d like to know why he’s being carted away in an ambulance; I think I have the right to--”

“Yeah, yeah. Your partner passed out in the middle of the street. We’re bringin’ him back; it’s common procedure.”

P.T. stared, mouth open. Phillip had passed out in the middle of the street…he was usually calm, collected; what on earth could have--oh.

P.T. had increased the number of shows, unknowingly dumping four times the amount of work on his partner’s head. He himself hadn't gotten off any worse for it, so naturally, he had assumed nobody else had--oh, he felt bad now.

Furrowing his brow, he stepped into the carriage next to Phillip without a second thought. The doctors complained at him, but he paid them no heed, letting the stretcher-loader he'd talked to explain.

He'd have to take some of the work himself; now that the advertising was out he couldn't go back to one show a day.

Looking at Phillip’s pale face on the stretcher, he felt a twinge of guilt. He should have listened to Charity.

After he accompanied Phillip to the hospital, he figured he'd go right home and tell her just that.

 


	4. Chapter 4

"Phillip? Can you hear me?"

Phillip groaned and opened his eyes. The ringmaster himself smiled when the younger man finally showed signs of consciousness.

"P.T.?" Phillip groaned. His head throbbed and tears of pain sprang into his eyes. "Where am I?"

"You took a pretty nasty fall outside the circus, Mr. Carlyle." P.T.'s lips curled upwards into a playful, relieved smile. "Another stunt like that and you could wind up seriously damaging that pretty face of yours."

Phillip's eyes widened and his throat ran dry.

_(filthy)_

He couldn't say a word.

Thankfully, he didn't have to.

The smile vanished from P.T.'s face as quickly as it appeared and he sighed. Lowering himself into a chair, he said, "I believe I owe you an apology."

"Wha—" He choked on his words, tongue heavy, throat dry. He coughed and tried again. "What for?"

"I've been working you too hard, Phillip, and for that I apologize. I'll be taking some of that load off your shoulders in the future."

"Really?"

"Yes, rea—"

"Phillip!"

Both men looked over to see Anne rush into the room. Tears shined in her eyes and she leaned down to wrap her arms around Phillip in a light hug. He reached up, wrapped his arms around her in return...and found himself staring at P.T. the entire time.

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Anne demanded as she pulled away. Fire quickly replaced the tears in her eyes. "When I heard you were in the hospital again, I thought—"

Behind her, Barnum got up and left the room. Phillip's heart sunk and a lump rose in his throat. Where was he going? Didn't he care?

_(why should he?)_

_(you're just phillip. not anything. not important. your parents are the important ones and look at how they treat you)_

_(he's disappointed you couldn't take the workload)_

_(not disappointed. disgusted. he knows, phillip, knows your secret, secret, secret)_

_("no son of mine will waste his life writing worthless filth!")_

_(secret, secret, secret, secret, secr)_

"—are you listening to me?" Anne touched his cheek, cupped his face in her hand. "Are you all right?"

"Head hurts," Phillip mumbled, subconsciously leaning into her touch. Anne smiled - taking the notion as a sign of affection - and caressed his cheek.

"I'll be right back, all right? I'm going to see about getting you some medicine."

Her smile brightened and she leaned down to kiss his cheek.

"I love you."

*

Phillip rested his head against the wall of the carriage and closed his eyes. Anne laid her head on his shoulder.

"Tired?" she asked.

"Just glad to be going home," he muttered. Anne entwined her fingers with Phillip's and softly massaged the palm of his hand.

He felt nothing.

Upon returning to Phillip's home, Anne hummed as she helped the man inside. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone, but didn't dare voice his thoughts aloud.

_(she loves you. and you love her, don't you?)_

"Sit down," Anne ordered, motioning toward the armchair in the living room. Phillip looked at the chair and sighed, but sat without argument. Anne disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water in hand.

He grimaced.

"What's wrong?" she mused as she sat on the armrest of the chair.

"Can't I have a drink?"

Anne's eyebrows furrowed in confusion before her eyes widened just slightly and she scowled. "A drink? Really? Be serious, now."

Phillip groaned.

"A drink is the last thing you need," she tutted. "If you're passing out sober from stress, just imagine what alcohol would do to—"

He sighed again. Loud.

Anne silenced. She held the cup up to the young man's lips and he drank obediently. He refused any more after just half the cup was gone, but she put it aside without complaint.

Phillip relaxed, finally thinking that she would leave him alone. When Anne dipped down and kissed him, he gasped against her lips.

He felt her hands move down toward his shirt collar and tug. He gasped again as he pulled away and rested his hands on her knees.

"Feeling better?" she murmured in his ear.

"Anne, what—"

"C'mon."

She stood from the chair and took him by the hand. He stood - not willingly - and made another muffled noise as she turned and kissed him again. They maneuvered down the hall and her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Anne...Anne—" He pulled away. She hummed and trailed her lips down to his neck, kissing, sucking lightly.

His mind clouded over for a moment, maybe two.

Then—

"Anne, _stop!_ "

The girl froze. Her hands fell from his collar and she took a step back back.

"Phil—?"

"Can't you see I'm not in the mood?" he snapped. "God, Anne, keep your hands to yourself."

Anne's eyes widened. "I - I thought—"

"You thought wrong," Phillip hissed.

Then he stormed from the room.

*

Tears rolled down Anne’s cheeks as she watched Phillip's retreating back.

_What the hell is wrong with you? Why so sensitive?_

He was just...stressed. That was it. The man passed out in the middle of the street. If that wasn't stress, then what was? She'd been a fool for thinking he'd want her again so soon.

_But you're **crying.** Is this really a crying matter?_

Anne sniffled and wiped a tear away from her eye. They were stressed, that was all. Between the new workload, Phillip's little stunt in the street, the fire...

It was no wonder everyone was so tense nowadays. Phillip just happened to be suffering the worst of it. He'd almost died, after all. And with Barnum enforcing those new rules—

Anne sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. The tears had stopped, but she still felt like crying as she left the empty living room and went to Phillip's bedroom. She'd wait for him there.

But, wait—

Anne paused. Her eyes widened.

The bar. Phillip was probably headed for the bar.

Instead of going to the bedroom like she'd originally planned, she made a detour to Phillip's office. He'd splurged the little money he still received from his parents on some of the latest inventions, and Anne happened to know the only other person in their little troupe wealthy enough to own such an advanced creation.

She called Barnum.

*

Phillip strolled into the bar slightly damp. It'd started to rain and he'd forgotten an umbrella. His head screamed at him, but the man felt detached from his own body.

The bartender chuckled. "Hit up your stash before coming for more?" he teased.

Phillip Carlyle ignored him as he heaved himself onto the barstool. He flopped like a rag doll and nearly tumbled off. The bartender watched with a raised eyebrow.

"Hit me with the strongest you've got."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are gonna start getting intense here real soon. don't forget to comment!! ~BuddysImpala


	5. Chapter 5

He was back in the bar. Everything was hazy - he remembered stumbling in and demanding the bartender another, another, another, but at some point the bartender had stopped giving him drinks all together. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks - why couldn't he just have a drink, god damnit?

"Phillip?"

He gasped and swirled around, banging his elbow on the edge of the counter. He winced and wrapped his hand around the throbbing joint as he slurred out, "P - P.T.?"

"Jesus, Phillip, how much have you had to - are you crying?"

P.T.'s hands were suddenly on his arms as he sobbed, snot running from his nose like a child. He blinked bloodshot eyes and hiccuped. "H-He won't let me have another drink," he pointed to the bartender like a tattling child and his finger shook "I just want another drink, I—"

"It's all right, let's just get you ho—"

Phillip slumped forward and cried into P.T.'s shoulder. The ringmaster stiffened in surprise and held the younger man away, hands on his shoulders now as he gave Phillip a curious, concerned look.

"Let's get you home," he repeated, taking a deep breath as he truly took in the look of Phillip for the first time. "Anne had to call me. She's worried sick about you."

"A-Anne?"

"Yes, Anne. You remember her, don't you? Tall, beautiful. Loves you."

( _loves you_ )

Yes, he remembered Anne.

( _she loves you_ )

But—

( _p.t. doesn't love you_ )

Phillip let out another wail. P.T. only sighed and helped the man off the barstool, slinging one of Phillip's arms around his neck. He nodded and muttered an apology to the bartender as he half-stumbled out of the bar beneath the weight of the other man.

Beside him, Phillip continued to sob.

*

Anne's glare hit him the second he walked into the tent. She stood over by her brother and had been watching him climb up to the trapeze, but it were as if she had a sixth sense and could feel Phillip in her proximity.

Phillip sighed and lowered his head as he approached her. She scoffed and looked away, but didn't start hurrying in the other direction - that was a start. "Please, Anne. Forgive me?"

"Oh, so now you're talking to me?"

Phillip winced. It was true - he had been ignoring her more than he'd like to admit, but, aside from the morning he'd woken up with a hangover from hell, she hadn't exactly made any effort to talk to him either. When he'd woken up that morning, her talking had quickly turned to screaming

(" _do you realize how badly you could have hurt yourself?_ ")

and it only made his headache even worse.

"I'm sorry," Phillip murmured. Anne huffed.

"Phillip, get over here!"

Phillip turned at the sound of his own name and nodded at the Irish giant, who waved him over. Anne had started to walk away by the time he turned back around, but he grabbed her by the wrist.

"What—"

Phillip kissed her, holding her body tightly against his. She gasped, but her hands - whether intentional or not, neither of them knew - moved up to entangle in the hair at the back of his head. When they pulled away, she reached up to touch her lips. Tears glimmered in her eyes.

"Let me make dinner for you," Phillip proposed hurriedly, knowing he was needed elsewhere. He didn't know what was coming out of his mouth, but he didn't - couldn't - stop it. "I know I've been terrible lately, but please - don't shut me out."

( _phineas_ )

"I'm sorry."

Anne studied him for a moment before taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"All right," she whispered. "I'll come over around sundown."

Phillip's lips curled into something that, he supposed, could squeak by as a smile if you looked at it from a distance with one eye closed.

"You won't regret it," he promised.

*

Phillip felt the bile rise in his throat as he looked down at the letter. It was from his parents - a rare occurrence nowadays - and the words, sprawled out in his father's neat cursive, made spots of red dance in front of his eyes. He was close to simply tearing the paper in half when he heard the knock at the door.

He set the letter on the table with a sigh and went to answer the door. Anne was there, smiling brightly at him, in a simple black dress. Her hair had been freshly washed and her curls hung loosely around her face.

"You look exquisite," Phillip murmured, pulling her inside with a kiss. She chuckled as the kiss broke.

"Don't lie on my behalf," she shook her head. "This is just about the only formal dress I own."

"What about the one you wore at the pla—"

Anne's lips turned down at the corners and Phillip flinched.

"Oh, right."

She hadn't worn that dress since his parents' "the help" comment.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"No use worrying about it now," she sighed. But the smile quickly returned and she asked "What's for dinner?" as she walked into the living area.

"Roast and potatoes," Phillip said, "but I got a little sidetracked—"

"What's this?" She picked up the letter from his parents.

Phillip sighed. "An invitation. My parents have invited me to another one of their parties tomorrow night—"

"Have fun with that."

"—but I won't go if you don't want me to."

Anne's expression softened. "Phil, just because I don't like your parents doesn't mean you shouldn't have a relationship with them."

"Are you sure?"

Anne nodded and set down the invitation to cup his face in her hands. "You should go. Have fun. Besides," she chuckled, "it's just for one night. How bad could they be?"

*

Anne was wrong; it was bad.

He'd immediately been confronted by a stifling, well-dressed mass of Carlyle family members the second he'd walked in—most of them wanting to know why he'd left, if he had mental problems, if they had something to do with his drinking (which had always been a problem, and not a well-concealed one, either). His parents had been scoffing continuously at him from across the room from the moment he'd gotten there. Phillip had begun to feel unbearably unwelcome.

That was why he'd spent two hours in a back corner, drinking champagne and studying the people. Although his mind never strayed from his situation, from Anne

( _you absolute liar, you're thinking about phineas_ )

he found himself shifting in his seat, hating the hard ball of heat growing in the pit of his stomach. He wished he hadn't had so much champagne; it always did this to him. But nevertheless, his eye was drawn to a figure at the back of the room—a tall, beautiful, and unmistakably _male_ figure.

He watched the man for what must have been an hour—starting when he suddenly turned and made eye contact. The aristo smiled widely and made his way over, chuckling at Phillip's searing red blush.

"Alone for long, good sir?" His voice was low and sultry, and Phillip prayed to all the gods he knew for the ability to speak coherently.

"And, I fear, for much longer tonight." The aristo chuckled, and Phillip's cheeks burned with a hidden pride. "In fact, I am so shunned that I am quite surprised you—a man of quite high stature, it seems—have taken it upon yourself to alleviate my boredom."

"In more than one way, I might hope."

Phillip's breath caught, and when the aristo stood, he stood with him. Something whispered _don't forget_ at the back of his mind, but he stomped it down, letting the unnamed aristo lead him to the back of a dark corridor behind some curtain. Phillip had two seconds to wonder how the random aristo knew of the passage before his lips were enveloped in the smell of lavender and hair tonic.

Fireworks burst in his mind, and suddenly it wasn't the aristo at all—it wasn't lavender, but the scent of whiskey and wood shavings that surrounded him, and the long blond hair brushing against his face was shorter and the color of chestnut.

His illusions shattered when the person across from him broke the kiss and took Phillip's hands in his, though. Dull pain bloomed in Phillip's heart, but he ignored it. The aristo spoke, with that smooth, beautiful voice.

"Come, sir. I grow bored of this party." He leaned closer, soft lips brushing Phillip's ear. "I can have a carriage ready for us in but three turns of the minute hand."

The implications of that last sentence ran through Phillip's head like a searing hot river, and he drew in a breath sharply. "I hardly know your name."

The blonde man smiled. "Flynn, my good sir. And I have no need for you to tell me yours. I've already figured that out."

The last sentence was punctuated with a smile that rubbed Phillip the wrong way, but he brushed the nagging feeling that something wasn't right off and nodded, eyes growing dark and large.

The aristo—Flynn—kissed Phillip's hand and led him out of the passage and the party. They slipped out unnoticed, and soon Flynn was helping Phillip into a large, fancy red carriage.

All the way to the aristo's house, they kissed in the back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to comment!! What do you think of Flynn? ;)) ~BuddysImpala


	6. A/N

Hey guys! This is BuddysImpala.

So, I'm fine. However, Mellon - the other half of this collab fic - had some family stuff come up and has to leave online fandom stuff for awhile. I don't want to continue this fic or write in her parts without her, so this fic will be put on a (hopefully **temporary** ) hold.

A mutual friend has said that Mellon will be able to return eventually, so this fic will continue when she - hopefully - does. However, this fic will not be updated in the meantime.

I will still be online and writing, and my solo works - _Ashes to Ashes_ , as well as my oneshots - will continue to be updated (semi) regularly. I'll let you all know when Mellon returns and when we can start on this fic again. :) I don't want to lose impatient readers so just thought I'd let y'all know what's up!

 


	7. Chapter 6

Flynn's breath was hot and heavy against his ear. Nails dragged down the aristo's back, but Phillip groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears wettened his lashes, but the man on top of him was too absorbed in his own satisfaction to care.

There was no rhythm, no tenderness, to Flynn's movements. It was just pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

It hurt. It hurt bad. Phillip scrunched his eyes shut and the tiniest of whimpers escaped slightly-parted lips. He turned his head to the side, but Flynn took it as an invitation. He bit down on Phillip's earlobe, and the playwright gasped. A single tear rolled down his cheek, but it was ignored. The soft cartilage of his earlobe throbbed.

He ground his teeth together as his hands moved upward, and silently wished that the long blond hair he tangled his fingers into was a sea of brown waves instead.

*

Fuck Number Three.

Phillip Carlyle, the black sheep of the illustrious family he came from--usually, Flynn would have stayed away from a man such as him, but Phillip was pretty.

Pretty like a girl, pretty like Emilia Carlyle had been. He missed Emilia--she was married now, of course; girls of her age should be--who had been the prettiest lady in town. Beautiful, thick brown hair, sweet almond-shaped blue eyes, and a button nose to rival the Queen's. She had been lovely, and of all the highborn ladies he had lain with, she had been the only one he truly missed.

Perhaps that was why he took such a liking to her younger brother. He embodied her in every sense--her face, hair, mannerisms, even her taste for drink. Flynn had come to him on an impulse; noticing the long stares coming from Phillip's sad corner, he'd decided to try him.

The third man.

Flynn had thought maybe it would be different. Maybe, with his sweet face and small frame, he'd have a voice to match. Maybe it would be easier to pretend.

He was wrong.

Phillip's lithe body and gentle features had not afforded him any pleasure at all; it was a struggle even to perform. He was reminded of how the men always felt; how strange and unnatural it seemed--why in all hell had he thought it would be different?

And so he thought, ignoring the soft cries of the man underneath him. One off the bucket list, at least.

*

Phillip woke to an unfamiliar bed and pain.

He opened his mouth, intending to scream, but remembered the events of last night and relaxed.

Well, "relaxed" was probably not the most appropriate word.

He was tense; incredibly so--the pain coming from between his legs did not seem as if it would abate anytime soon, and when he tentatively lifted the blankets covering him, he saw the faintest trace of dried blood.

He remembered Anne, and cried.

He muffled himself, shoving his face into the pillows, but it wasn't enough. The tall man beside him stuck his head up, saw Phillip, and grimaced. He reached over, pushing Phillip's shoulder. Phillip did not move, and Flynn gave him another shove before rolling his eyes and swinging gracefully off the bed.

He exited the room without sparing Phillip a glance. Phillip lay on the bed, thinking of Anne and P.T. and hating himself.

Hours passed in this fashion until Flynn came back--upon seeing Phillip, he audibly scoffed, marched over and threw the blankets off of him. Phillip whined.

"Come on now; you don't think you can dally here all day, do you? I have places to be. I can't watch you forever."

Phillip slowly maneuvered into a sitting position. He hated this house--hated it--but he knew that he couldn't go back to his flat. He wouldn't. He'd die first. "Flynn--"

"You may address me as Sir." The blonde prodded a pile of clothing with his foot; the look of disgust on his face told Phillip it was his.

"Sir, I won't bother you. I'll not step foot from this room, if you so desire--just don't make me go home, please..." He wouldn't cry again; that would only make things worse. He wouldn't.

Flynn stared at him incredulously, then burst into laughter. "Surely you cannot be serious! Thinking that I'd let you stay--who do you think you are? I can tell you right now you are incorrect in your delusions."

Phillip stared at the floor. "Why should you turn me away?" he ventured softly, reminding himself of Flynn's previously kind eyes and soft words.

"Should I house a common street whore for longer than is necessary?" Flynn strode to the bed, taking Phillip's chin in one soft hand and forcing the man up to look at him. "You house with gutter rats and unnatural hell-borns. You spurn the good fortune with which you were gifted on silly frivolities and scandal. Should I, then, not consider you on the same level as the sluts selling themselves for a penny on the docks?"

Phillip closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath. He hadn't thought of that, but Flynn was right, wasn't he? Life had been bad before, but at least he still had some semblance of dignity then. Now, as he sat weeping and naked before the man he had given his pride to, he recognized that it was gone, and he would never gain it back.

Some things were irreversible.

Flynn had walked away while he was pondering this, and now a wrinkled shirt flew across the room and into Phillip's face. Flynn was muttering to himself whilst angrily gathering Phillip's discarded clothing from the floor. For some reason, this struck a hidden nerve, and without knowing why, Phillip began to cry. Loudly.

Flynn was there in an instant to shove Phillip's clothes in his lap, growling with irritation. "Stop your infernal sobbing and get dressed--I'm giving you five minutes--three minutes, one minute, thirty seconds--"

Phillip tried to speak, to tell him that he wanted to stop; he _desperately_ wanted to--but nothing came out save for hoarse, loud sobs. Flynn stood there, growing more and more red in the face, but he held his anger back.

That is, until Phillip managed to cry out "--not fair--" in the midst of his sniveling.

Flynn took in a breath, raised a hand, and slapped Phillip hard across the cheek.

"Will. You. Shut. UP!"

Phillip stiffened, and shut up. He didn't dare reach up to touch his face, but he trembled all over.

Sneering, Flynn wiped a hand on his waistcoat and gestured to the clothing on Phillip's lap. "Get dressed. I want you gone in half an hour."

With that, he left. Phillip was gone in twenty minutes. He wasn't late to work.

*

That day at the circus was long and tiring. Phillip hadn't sat down once and his legs ached, but he ignored them. He wanted nothing more than to change into normal clothing and—

"Are you all right, Phillip?"

Phillip gasped as he turned around and came face to face with the ringmaster. P.T. took a step forward, eyeing the younger man with worry.

"You're limping. Have been all day," P.T. pointed out. "And that bruise, Phillip, Christ—"

He'd managed to cover most of the bruise left by Flynn's hand with stage makeup, but that was starting to smear away with the sweat and heat of the performance. Phillip brought a hand up to his cheek and tried not to cringe.

"It's nothing," he dismissed, though he rubbed the bruised flesh self-consciously. "I just got into a little scuffle—"

_"Phillip."_

The man tensed at the too-familiar tone, and then cringed as he slowly turned to face his parents.

"Mother. Father. I wasn't aware you'd attended the show," he choked out.

"How _dare_ you leave us like that," Mr. Carlyle hissed. "Don't you realize that party was to help you rebuild your reputation? How could you leave us to explain your sudden abse—?"

Mrs. Carlyle gasped, interrupting her husband. She reached up toward Phillip's cheek, but didn't touch. "Oh, Phillip," she said with what sounded like genuine concern. "What happened?"

Phillip shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and Mr. Carlyle noticed the awkward way in which he held himself. His eyes darkened and his lip curled back.

"Phillip," he said slowly. His hold on his cane tightened, and Phillip flinched. "I've heard you were spotted with Mr. Flynn Tymon before leaving the party. Now, I'm sure you know of Mr. Tymon's reputation for lying with men and women alike—"

Phillip's eyes widened. Voice cracking, he spat out, "How dare you suggest such a thing?" His cheeks reddened. "Father, I - I got into a scuffle last night. A fight. That's all. Mr. Tymon had," he hesitated briefly and prayed they wouldn't notice, "nothing to do with it."

Mrs. Carlyle gasped. Mr. Carlyle rose an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Oh, Phillip," she muttered, "who? Who hurt you? Why? We'll see to it that they—"

"Did you put up a fight?" Mr. Carlyle interrupted.

Phillip spluttered as he looked at his father. "Excuse me?"

"Did you fight like a man, Phillip?" Mr. Carlyle stepped forward and sneered in his son's face. "Did you fight to uphold the reputation of this family?"

"I - Father, I—"

Tears stung his eyes. Mr. Carlyle stood so close that he snickered and shook his head upon seeing them.

"Of course you didn't," he scowled, eyeing the bruise on Phillip's face with disgust. "You're nothing, but a—"

"That's quite enough, sir."

P.T. had watched the encounter in silence, and they all turned when he finally spoke. His eyes were cold, his words sharp.

"I appreciate your purchasing of a ticket and I truly hope you enjoyed the show," P.T. muttered, "but I will not stand here and watch you verbally attack my business partner."

Tears openly rolled down Phillip's cheeks

_(what does this mean?)_

and his chest clenched.

P.T. was defending him.

"What are you saying?" Mr. Carlyle demanded.

"Get out of my circus," P.T. spat.

Before Mr. or Mrs. Carlyle could protest, P.T. slung his arm around Phillip's shoulders

_(what is he doing?!)_

and marched off. Phillip stumbled like a rag doll after him.

The Carlyles did not follow.

The tears continued as P.T. led Phillip away. Finally, they came to a stop and P.T. turned to face the younger man.

"It's all right," the ringmaster soothed. "You're fine. You're not weak for getting hurt, 'Lip, no matter what they say."

P.T. pulled Phillip into a hug. Phillip gasped, chest to chest with P.T., inhaling his scent. Anxiety curled in his gut and he pushed P.T. - oblivious P.T., who was just trying to help out a friend - away.

P.T.'s face twisted in confusion. "Phil—?"

Phillip hurried into his changing room and slammed the door. P.T. gaped at the sudden obstruction between himself and Phillip, and rose his fist to knock.

"Phillip?"

No answer.

P.T. tried the doorknob. It was locked.

On the other side of the door, in the safety of his changing room, Phillip Carlyle crumpled to the floor and sobbed.

*

"Mr. Carlyle, are you all right?"

"Don't," Phillip hiccuped, "call me that."

He was sat at the bar. Pain flared in his ass, but the alcohol helped numb that pain and he demanded the bartender bring him another drink. The bartender stared at him in worry - especially eyeing that bruise on his cheek - but sighed as he nodded. He poured Phillip another cup and passed it over to him.

And watched in stunned silence as Phillip Carlyle began to cry.

The bartender didn't know sober Phillip very well, but drunk Phillip wasn't much of a pretty crier. He wailed loudly - truth be told, the bartender was surprised that the other drinkers didn't make complaint - and fat tears rolled down his bright red cheeks. His hair was messy and hung in his face, strands of it sticking to his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot.

He cried as he spoke, choking through his sobs.

"I don't know what to do," he wailed. He could barely keep his head up. "I just want to - endall..."

His words slurred together as he babbled. All the bartender could do was stare.

"What was that, Mr. Car - sir?"

"End it all," Phillip cried. He slapped his hand down on the surface of the bar and his drink rattled, but didn't tip over. The palm of his hand stung. "Just w-waaanna sleep," he groaned. His head lolled to the side. He hiccuped again. "Just wanna sleep forever and ever and ever."

"How about I fetch you a ride home, sir? You can owe me the cost," the bartender offered.

"Love Anne," Phillip muttered. Then he shook his head and groaned. "No - love someone else! Can't tell. Made a mistake."

The bartender stared. Looking around, he motioned for someone - a big man who was a regular at the bar, but never got black-out drunk - to come over. The man obeyed and the bartender murmured to him. He asked if he could go outside and fetch a carriage for Mr. Phillip Carlyle.

The man nodded and left.

"—ening? Of course you're not listening." Phillip shook his head. "No one listens."

The bartender stared out the door and silently prayed for the man to come back as fast as he could.

"—end all. End it all. Forever and ever and ever."

When the man finally came back to take Phillip home, the bartender almost cried with relief.

*

There were seven men in Flynn's parlor for afternoon tea. Flynn was very particular about the friends he picked, and so the wealthy aristocrats in his house were all of the same bent he was—lusty, bored, and extremely gossipy.

A tall man with dark hair laughed, almost dropping his teacup. "A very noble undertaking, Mr. Leaston! The ladies of the Pinckney household are chaste indeed—why, some say it took Sir Lancelot himself to successfully woo a single lass!"

The man across from him—Mr. Leaston—chuckled heartily. "A noble undertaking, indeed. Since the laps of the Pinckney daughters remain closed still, however, I shall have to make do with the newest addition to the Turpin household."

Another man—Irish, all covered in freckles—slammed his teacup onto a side table, eyes widening. "You've snared the affections of the young ward, Janet? They say she is kept more shut in than a bird in a cage."

Leaston smiled. "Why, yes, I have. Despite her stifled upbringing, she is as eager as a young pup on his first hunting trip."

They spoke in such a fashion for an hour, until Flynn finally spoke. "All of you speak of your conquests, and such—but you will never guess who I had the pleasure of trying last night."

The other nobles quieted, looking at him with twisted amusement.

Flynn smiled. "Phillip Carlyle. Shy at first, but in bed, quite pleasant. He holds quite the resemblance to Emilia, though she has married since."

The nobles were silent, before bursting into a cacophony of musings and chuckles. This would make for good news—the black sheep of the illustrious Carlyle family disgraced two times over.

Flynn grinned, watching them talk. Surely their loose lips and gossipy tendencies would—

"Losing his superiority, I see," murmured Leaston, and, despite being lost in thought, Flynn heard. Scowling, he put down his teacup hard on the table. It thudded as it hit the wood, and the murmuring men quieted.

"For those who suggest I may be becoming... _effeminate_ , if you will, I advise you to remember the frame and history of the Carlyle boy. Who do you think lost his superiority here?"

Understanding, the men snickered. Flynn smiled.

The rest of the gathering was spent making vulgar jokes and disparaging the personality of the young Carlyle--it was their favorite pastime, ridiculing Flynn's conquests.

When the men left, their mouths still had not closed, and Flynn smirked as he closed the door on the last one.

That'd serve the boy right for his incompetence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That hiatus didn't last long! And I do believe this is the longest chapter yet so please feel free to comment. ;)


	8. Chapter 7

The upscale restaurant was among the nicest in the city. Leaston's lips curled into a smirk around his wine glass as the door opened and the owner of one of New York's finest theaters came through the door.

Like Phillip, Leaston had a way with words that came to life upon the stage. However, his flair for romance and seduction was often overshadowed by Phillip Carlyle's Shakespearean-esque tragedies. The Carlyle boy was whiny and overly dramatic, and had a peculiar taste for tales of woe inspired by bouts of alcoholism. And, though his playwriting had taken a backseat to his rendezvous with the circus, his plays continued to sell out theaters. Theatre owners over picked Phillip's plays over Leaston's - and it infuriated the latter-mentioned man to no end.

Some platforms may be able to overlook Phillip's abandonment of the aristocratic lifestyle for the circus, and they may be able to overlook his very public feud with his parents, but this new information could not go ignored. Leaston knew this and that almighty power caused him to smirk as his business target took his seat.

"Ah, Mr. Harris," Leaston greeted, "I cannot express my gratitude enough that you've finally decided to meet with me regarding my work."

"You were quite persistent, Mr. Leaston," Mr. Harris responded. He, too, ordered a glass of champagne and spoke again once the waiter had gone. "However, I know you know that my shows are currently booked, and Phillip Carlyle's plays are—"

"If I may," Leaston interrupted. Mr. Harris lifted an eyebrow as he fell into silence. "I believe I have knowledge about the Carlyle lad that you and other managers around New York will find quite... interesting."

"Oh?" When his champagne arrived, Mr. Harris took a sip and leaned back in his chair. He rested his hands on his very round stomach. "Do tell me more."

Glancing quickly around the restaurant, Leaston leaned forward. Whispers of Phillip Carlyle's affair with an "unknown male" passed from lips to ear.

Mr. Harris's eyes sparkled with intrigue by the time the waiter came back to take their orders.

Beside them, a grinning group of men snickered and elbowed one another. Their wives folded hands over their mouths, faces burning bright pink, ducking their heads in odd mixtures of awe and shame. Their eyes sparkled as they glanced quick peeks at one another.

The news would be all over their part of New York before long.

*

Phillip Carlyle woke with the hangover to end all hangovers. Legitimate tears formed in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he sat up in bed - his own bed, this time - and forced his feet to the floor. Hungover or not, he had to get to the circus. They had a show (one? two? he couldn't remember) that night.

_(anne is going to kill you)_

Anne—

He sat perched on the edge of his bed and let the tears flow. The night with Flynn felt like a lifetime ago - though he'd been waking up in the other aristo's bed just twenty-four hours before - but the dulled pain in his ass reminded him of his betrayal. However, though the beautiful trapeze artist was the name that echoed over and over again in his mind, it was not her face he saw when he closed his eyes.

It was P.T.'s.

Forcing his eyes open, Phillip swallowed back a sob and forced himself up on trembling legs. He was totally alone in his apartment - he even missed Flynn's presence, as crazy as it sounded - and he willed himself to get dressed and straighten up. The sooner he got to the circus, the sooner he could put on his mask and temporarily lose himself in the comforts of his makeshift family.

He locked up and left his home without issue, but he felt a nervous sweat break out against the back of his neck when he walked the streets. New York's roads were crowded with people on foot and carriage and, as nervous blue eyes flicked back and forth between faces, he swore he heard his name on their lips.

There was a group of people across the street. They looked to be middle-class women, nothing particularly special, but they were huddled around each other in a circle that broke apart as soon as he walked amongst them. One woman, with fiery hair and a permanent sneer plastered on her lips, stared at him as he walked by.

_(they know)_

_(just keep your head down)_

Lump forming in his throat, Phillip ducked his head as he hurried past the gossiping group of women. His surroundings blurred around the edges of his vision and he stopped only when he plowed straight into a solid, muscular, undeniably male chest.

Gulping, he lifted his head.

The two men before him seemed to tower over his 5'8" height. The one with unkept black hair sneered, revealing yellowing teeth. His friend spat at Phillip's shoes.

"Well, well," the first sneered. "Phillip Carlyle, in the flesh."

Tears blurred Phillip's vision, but he blinked them away. He couldn't cry. Not there. Not there.

"Gentlemen," he cleared his throat and his voice shook, "what can I... do for you?"

"What can't you do?" Yellow Teeth asked. His friend guffawed as if it were the funniest joke in the world.

Phillip took a hesitant step back. Blood rushed to his head and his heart thundered in his ears. He cried out when Yellow Teeth grabbed him by the arm.

"Little birdie tells us you like it up the ass, eh, Carlyle?" he sneered and spat in the young playwright's face. Phillip recoiled.

"Let... go of me!" he cried, yanking his arm away with such force that he stumbled backwards. Laughter erupted in the streets - he hadn't even realized they'd formed an audience - and he turned away, wiping the spit from the center of his face.

"Awe, come back here, Carlyle. Let's have some fun—"

Phillip broke out into a run as Yellow Teeth and friend reached out for him, practically stumbling over his own two feet, tears blurring his vision.

They _knew_. Flynn told, and they knew, and they hated him for it, and that meant that—

Anne.

*

He could barely breathe when he made it to the circus. He burst into the ring like a man on fire, eyes wide and delirious, tears streaking down his cheeks. He gasped for breath and launched forward, hands on his knees like he was about to lose the contents of his stomach all over the floor.

"Phillip?"

He looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. His heart pounded in his ears and his vision blurred, but there was no mistaking the figure in the red ringmaster coat.

P.T.

Fear convulsed Phillip's entire body for a split moment as he thought, horrified, that P.T. must have heard the rumors and would surely ridicule him for it. But... P.T. often arrived at the circus early, restless and unable to sleep, and planned out details of the next show in the privacy of his silent office. Judging from his slightly rumpled (more than usual) appearance and the light shadow gracing P.T.'s jaw,

_(stop staring, you fucking freak)_

he'd been there since the early morning hours. Chances of him hearing the news from anyone outside of the circus were slim to none.

Phillip relaxed, but not by much. He forced himself steady on his feet, though, and forced a gulp full of air into his lungs.

"P.T.," he wheezed, a light blush grazing his cheeks and the back of his neck, "have you s-seen Anne?"

To his surprise, P.T. chuckled. Phillip's eyebrows shot up, but before he could ask what was going on, P.T. provided the answer to his question.

"Why... there she is now."

Eyes blowing wide, Phillip spun around. A startled, strangled sob escaped his throat.

The siblings were just entering the room. W.D. stood with a look to kill on his face and his hand on Anne's shoulder.

Anne stared at Phillip with flooded eyes of broken trust.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as of right now and starting from this chapter, this fic only has one writer - BuddysImpala. Mellon has personal stuff going on once again, but I don't know how long things will last this time so I didn't want to abandon this fic. I MIGHT have to delete the fic from AO3 and reupload as a solo project because I don't know if you can remove a co-creator, but we'll see. This chapter - as well as every chapter in the foreseeable future - was written by *only* me. I know it was only a filler, but even so, I hope it was satisfactory.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, it's here! The Famed Angst Collab--this is Mello speaking. This chapter was long for Britt and short for me, so we met in the middle (but um you should probably expect longer ones in the future because I am a Sucker For Long Chapters as many of you know).  
> THAT'S ALL FOR TODAY  
> make sure you comment so we can d'awwwwww and feel good :)  
> loVE TO ALL  
> -taxicab/mello


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